Of puffy white clouds and wooly jumpers
by roxake19
Summary: Oh this is just brilliant, only Sherlock Holmes could ever realise he is in love after he dies. Sherlock/John


Title: Of puffy white clouds and wooly jumpers  
>Fandom: Sherlock BBC<br>Warnings: character death(sort of)  
>Pairing: SherlockJohn  
>Disclaimer: I own nothing<br>A/N: Also here at my lj (just remove the spaces) http: / / slipkid19 . livejournal . com / 2604 . html # cutid1

Summary: Oh this is just _brilliant_, only Sherlock Holmes could ever realise he is in love after he dies.  
>Beta:The amazing <strong>dltoro<strong>

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><p>There's no air. That's the first thought that passes through Sherlock's mind when he emerges from the darkness that followed the explosion. Fragments of seconds later he realises that there's no need for air either. He thinks opening one's eyes first is the best course of action in most situations, even though he doesn't know what the current situation is. So he does open them and is blinded momentarily by the light that surrounds him. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the light an d for the first time in a very long time, so long that he doesn't even remember anymore, he is lost. Not geographically because he appears to be nowhere, there's just light and no place to be lost in, but lost in his own mind. For the first time in <em>so<em> long he doesn't understand and it hurts to try,., to think but it's also so real, more real than the thrill of the chase and a l ong awaited epiphany, as real as his thoughts and dreams when he's under the influence, as real as John's astonishment at his deductions and as real as a train of thought that jumps from fact to deduction so quickly even the great Sherlock Holmes can't follow it.

He blinks again and he's back at 221B but it's different somehow, quiet. He tries to call for John or Mrs Hudson but something - he cringes at the thought because above all he's a logical being unaffected by prejudice and feelings - in his gut tells him there's no point. And he is right because for days or maybe it's minutes, he's not sure, no one shows up at the fully furnished but somehow empty apartment. And then it hits Sherlock like a train or like the sound of John's laughter disturbing the silence on a cold night, that he is dead. There's no other explanation for it, not that this one, the one where there is some sort of afterlife o r whatever this is supposed to be, is logical or even possible but so many things aren't. It's another anomaly, he supposes, no matter how much he hates them.

Somehow, time passes. Sherlock can't feel it but he knows. After another blink he is getting down on his knees in front of a body. He inspects every inch of the victim, Lestrade and the annoying Jurassic Park fan from hell n owhere to be seen, and has every detail about the killer but his name in a few minutes. He storms out of the building - even though he doesn't remember being in one - and starts running in the busy London streets, missing unbestknown to him the most important clue of them all. When he arrives at the pub where he knows he'll find the killer he stops in a halt and puts on his regular-bloke-wanting-to-watch-a-game-and-get-pissed face a s John calls it. His facade, though, fails w hen he opens the door and finds no one in. He does a double take, head turning from left to right frantically, like one of those cartoon characters that John pretends he doesn't watch every Saturday morning. He runs to the toilet and then out the back door, a heavy sigh the only evidence of his failure. He walks back to 221B - and where the hell are the cabs? If this is the afterlife surely there must be transport p rovided - and for the first time since he arrived here he looks for the people around him a nd he is not at all surprised when he realises there aren't any. It makes se nse, he thinks, if this is the afterlife, it makes sense to be a personal one, one that he would like. And what's better than the absence of blithering idiots who keep inflicting their opinions upon the world, his world. And he thinks, _brilliant_. Once inside 221B he lets himself fall on the sofa - without removing his scarf and coat for once - an d waits for John to fetch him a cuppa like he always does when the consulting detective go es out on a case alone. Sherlock waits for a long time, or maybe it's only been seconds, before realising. _Oh._ He dismisses the thought from his mind.

Days and nights pass and this time Sherlock feels it. He feels it every time he gets no reply when yelling _John_, he feels it when he turns around after another brilliant deduction and sees no smile waiting for him, he feels it every time he sneaks gl ances at the door hoping to see Mrs. Hudson coming up, complaining about her bad hip, he feels it every time he looks at his phone and there is no message from Lestrade, he knows it e e very time the CCTV cameras don't follow him on the streets. But somehow even though there is no Lestrade he still finds himself in front of dead bodies, he just blinks and he's there, and he always, always understands, sees the clues and puts them together and because he can't resist it he still runs to where he knows the killer should be even though everything is empty. In other words Sherlock pretends everything is fine and despite the fact that he has to make his own tea - apparently fridge and cupboards never empty once you die - it _is _fine.

And even though he tries to ignore the thought, Sherlock knows that's exactly the problem. Because before it wasn't just fine. It was great, amazing, breathtaking even when he was watching crap telly with Joh-. Oh, _oh, bollocks_. For the first time in his life Sherlock doesn't want to make a deduction but he has no choice either - it's like being dragged by an invisible truck, you know it's futile but still you plant your feet on the ground and pull back - so he opens his eyes and thinks, sees, understands. He thinks of how empty, not _enough_, everything in this perfect little world of his is, how he turns around every once in a while hoping to catch a glimpse of wide smiles and jumpers. He sees the empty streets around him, the bodies he tries to know even the smallest detail about and finally understands why he doesn't really want to roam the streets in search of criminals like before. It's not because there are no criminals to look for, no, it's because he is alone. Running alone, handling crime scenes alone, making tea alone, watching crap telly alone. There is no John, no Mrs. Hudson, no Lestrade, no psychopaths to claim they're going to burn important parts of his anatomy, no Mycroft, no Mummy and most of all no _John_. No John.

This time Sherlock blinks and he is still lying on the couch of 221B but his chest aches, his mind aches and if he could - and for some reason he knows he can't - he would cry. Because it's _John_, the thrill of the chase, the epiphanies, the deductions, somehow in the past three years he's known the doctor, everything he does, everything Sherlock knows, have been serving a purpose: _John_. Sure, he longs for a good mystery, yes, but most of all now he longs for the grins and the take outs that follow his brilliant deductions. Oh this is just _brilliant_, only Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft would say, could ever realise he is in love after he dies.

But then he hears it. It's barely there and he has to focus on the sound to be certain but he knows, he just knows. He has spent so much time ignoring it, pretending he doesn't have one, being told he doesn't, that he has almost forgotten its sound, the feel of it. He brings his palm to his chest and feels it, his heart, beating slowly but steadily, letting him know that he is alive. _Of_ _course_ he is not dead, _of course _this is not some sort of afterlife. He's not dead, he is _dying_. There are voices coming from afar, a call from the reality that truly matters.

'_Clear'_

His back arches and he doesn't even know why but it does and it doesn't hurt anymore. He doesn't have to understand a thing anymore. All he has to do is blink. When he does he sees foreign faces and John at the far end of the (hospital?) room and he is not lost anymore. He is found and it's brilliant, he wants to smile, laugh but there is something in his mouth and people fussing over him while he tries to convey with his eyes that he needs John near. _Now_.

Later he'll be wheeled to a private hospital room and deduce things from the medical staff's personal lives while John begs him to shut up. He'll look at John and understand once again. He'll offer his hand on the ride to 221b and he'll protest over the crutches until John pushes him down on the couch and forces pills, biscuits a nd tea down his throat. Later he'll solve cases, he'll catch Moriarty, he'll piss off Anderson and Mycroft. Later he'll take John to bed and spent nights mappinf every inch of his body, mouthing promises of forever and declarations of love on scarred skin.

But for now he'll just breathe. He needs the air.


End file.
